


O Tannenbaum

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>choosing a Christmas tree when you're a Winchester</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Tannenbaum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [wish 186](http://community.livejournal.com/insmallpackages/1137.html?thread=100465#t100465): "Sam/Dean and a Christmas Tree" at [](http://community.livejournal.com/insmallpackages/profile)[ **insmallpackages**](http://community.livejournal.com/insmallpackages/).

  
“The first one we looked at was taller,” says Dean critically, surveying the ragged, dwarfish spruce listing faintly leftwards in the corner of the motel room.

It’s true. Sam has to bend down instead of reaching up to fasten the trench-coated paper angel to the top. He trusts that Cas won’t drop by and be offended by the bug-eyed expression Dean has given it. Or by Sam either having sex with his brother or needing help disposing of Dean's corpse. Sam hasn’t decided yet which way the evening will go.

“That one bled when we tried to cut it down,” he says. “We had an agreement, Dean. Christmas. Holiday. Day off. No cases.” Though they had set fire to the bleeding tree before moving on. Leaving it for some happy kid to find seemed, well, contrary to the spirit of the season. More contrary than a bit of benign arson.

“That balsam fir one was classy,” Dean goes on. He sounds wistful. Sam stares at him.

“Dude, you told me it was infested with sprites. You’re the one who's been marked by the fairies, no way are you messing around with a sprite tree.”

“And whose fault is that?” snaps Dean unreasonably. Sam sighs. He takes full responsibility for the vampire thing, and even for the regrettable soulless karaoke incident. But the fairies were not his fault. Souled or unsouled, Sam is not to blame for Dean being a first-born son with striking green eyes and musical tastes. He just hasn’t figured out a way to tell Dean that without it coming out as a compliment.

“I like this one,” he says instead. “It has character.”

“It has some hideous spruce disease,” Dean counters. Which so isn’t fair. It’s a bit brown in patches, maybe, but that’s honorable old age, or a heroic struggle with a challenging climate. But Dean is still regarding it with Grinch-like loathing. “We should have gotten the scotch pine.”

And that is outside of enough. “What part of “it fired volleys of poisoned needles at us” are you not remembering?” Sam yells. Then he gets a grip on himself. Deep breaths. Serenity now. He is a fully souled being again. He should be capable of patience and charity. Especially at Christmas. Even towards Dean.

“The tree is _fine_ ,” he states. Firm, but quiet. “It is not cursed. It is not sentient. It is not home to evil supernatural creatures of any kind, nor does it feed on human flesh. Plus, it was cheap.” He strokes the closest branch affectionately. A small shower of needles patters down onto the carpet.

“It looks kind of nice, too,” he adds, stepping back to admire their labors. It really does. They’d gotten a string of lights and some candy canes and shiny foil-wrapped chocolates in red and green and gold. Though Sam has been surreptitiously eating those last as he works.

“Don’t go launching your magazine just yet, Martha,” says Dean, but he’s looking at the twinkling display with a certain satisfaction. Sam punches his shoulder and then lets his hand uncurl and linger, rubbing his thumb along the notch of Dean's collarbone. Dean leans into the touch, just a little, but enough. Oh, yeah. Sam's definitely going for awesome sex rather than justifiable fratricide. He closes his other hand around Dean's arm and crowds him back against the wall to kiss him. He smells of evergreen and tastes of eggnog. And chocolate. Ha. Sam _knew_ he wasn’t the only one snacking on the ornaments. He wraps a hand around the back of Dean’s head to angle him better, so he can lick into his mouth. Gathering evidence.

Dean makes a pleased noise and his hands grope under Sam’s shirt, stroking up his spine to his shoulders, pulling him closer. After a bit he nudges his hard-on against Sam’s thigh, a get-on-with-it reminder, and tilts back his head so Sam can work his way down from his mouth and tackle his neck. He hisses at the first nip of teeth, and his hands move round front and get busy with Sam’s belt.

The room fills gradually with the smell of sweat and the creak of bedsprings, snatched words and harsh breaths and colored lights sliding over tangled limbs. The tree, disregarded in its corner, sways gently. Flurries of glittering pollen swirl into the air and settle unnoticed between Sam’s shoulder blades, in the hollow of Dean’s arched throat, on their twined hands gripping the bedpost. 


End file.
